“But—oh, Mildred—-he’s so lonely,” cried Patsy, impulsively.
“I’m sorry for that,” she said, “but it is not my fault.”
“It will be, though, if you refuse,” declared Runyon.
“I fear I must.”
“I see,” he said with a sigh. “Mother endorsed you, but she didn’t endorse me. You’ve heard some tough yarns about me—all true as gospel—and you’re prejudiced. I don’t know as I blame you. If I were a girl I’d hesitate to reform such a desperate character, I’m sure. But I’ve the notion there’s the making of a decent fellow in me, if the right workman undertakes the job.”
She looked at him earnestly, now—very earnestly. In spite of the squeaky voice and the inopportune time he had chosen for such a serious proposal, there was an innate manliness and ingenuousness in his attitude, as he stood there unabashed and towering above the other men, that seemed to her admirable and impressive. Both Beth and Patsy were reflecting that a girl might do much worse than to accept Bulwer Runyon as a mate.
Said Mildred, still speaking in the same quiet and composed voice:
“I will give you a positive answer in three days, Mr. Runyon. That delay is mere justice to us both.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Shall we fuss with these tattered laces any longer? It hardly seems worth while.”
Now that the strain of the situation was removed they all began chattering volubly in order to give countenance to Mildred. Runyon seemed not to need such consideration.